


Sentimental

by raven_aorla



Series: This Caring Lark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sighed. While the way things were heading were not a pleasant prospect by any degree, it seemed so eminently predictable. Moriarty tsked and cupped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "Don't be so pessimistic, my dear; Daddy's got plenty of plans." AU from the pool scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimental

Not my characters. Warnings for non-con and swearing.

...

The Pool

Before Sherlock had time to make his move, John received a gunshot to the leg. John's brief gasp and Sherlock's slight widening of the eyes were as significant as the screams of other men.

"I suggest you slowwwwly put the gun on the floor, love," Moriarty said in that sugared brogue of his. "Both of you have to die, but I can always make you watch your pet be cut into little agonized pieces first. Up to you."

"Sherlock..."

"Focus on stopping the bleeding," Sherlock whispered to his friend, doing what he was told. The laser sights traveled with him, never leaving his body, and still more appeared when he straightened to his full height again.

"You're without anything to bargain with now. Goodnight." Moriarty turned to leave.

"Not quite."

This earned him a glance and a raised eyebrow. "What could you possibly offer me?"

"If I die here, now, you'll be bored again. Such tedium, all those tiny minds, no one to play chess against."

"It's a risk I'm prepared to take. I can't lose everything I've worked for."

Sherlock tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. "I'll go with you."

Moriarty's upper lip quirked. "Oh?"

"I surrender. Completely. I'll go with you. Do as you like. Just let him go."

"You idiot, you don't have to do this..."

"Do shut up, John, I'm trying to be noble and it's difficult as it is without you whining about it."

With a giggle, Moriarty snapped his fingers. A tall, sturdy man with a rifle in one hand and a knapsack over his shoulder appeared from out of Sherlock's line of sight. He put an arm around Sherlock, who flinched on instinct. The tall man chuckled against his ear. "Don't be flattering yourself, lad, it's to keep you bashing that brilliant head of yours on the poolside."

Then a needle prick, and John's yells amounted to naught.

...

Ball gag in mouth. Silk sheets, goose down pillows. Lambskin cuffs around wrists cinched two centimeters tighter than is considered safe by members of the BDSM community; circulation soon to be impaired. Synthetic rope (nylon) holding legs open at thirty-five degree angle. Faint odor of peppermint oil (bizarre, significance unknown as yet).

No sensation of clothes against skin. Not entirely unexpected. But still more than a bit not good. Damn. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was face up on a bed, pinned and spread, and he wouldn't give anyone who could possibly be watching the amusement of pointless struggle. Moriarty and his thugs would never be so foolish as to give him any possibility of escape. The cuffs had chains wrapped around them, padlocked, and the level of give he had between the two sets of bonds was far too awkward for useful maneuvering.

Disconcertingly, the room was softly lit by a candlelabra on a table several feet away, and in a corner there was a vase full of white roses.

A door, again out of Sherlock's line of sight, squeaked faintly as it opened. Moriarty swanned into view in a different Westwood suit, with a red rose in his lapel. "Just think, sexy, if you had simply called me, we could have avoided all this intermediate bother."

Sherlock sighed. While the way things were heading were not a pleasant prospect by any degree, it seemed so eminently predictable.

Moriarty tsked and cupped Sherlock's chin in his hand. "Don't be so pessimistic, my dear; Daddy's got plenty of plans."

Kneeling to fetch items from the nightstand, Moriarty chattered idly about how he had somewhat hoped things might turn out this way, but was sufficiently unsure that having Sherlock here, his, and always his even if the darling detective hadn't quite internalized it yet - that this was Christmas, truly. "And you won't have to worry about anyone interrupting us, because I explained to Johnny-boy how much my people are watching and listening to everything he does and how he'll feel if we have to send an unpleasant little film featuring his sister, you know, if he helps the police in any way."

Tying a black silk blindfold over Sherlock's suddenly enraged eyes, Moriarty giggled. "Ohh, you don't like it when I talk about him, do you? Hit a nerve there. Half Scotland Yard thinks you two are fucking, but I know for a fact that you haven't been. He's been chasing every bit of skirt that flits on by, and you lie there on the couch in that blue dressing gown, with your nicotine patches and your frustration with life, not even having a wank to relieve some of the tension. You're like one gorgeous coiled spring. Perhaps it's time to do something about it. No need to thank me."

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, no need to be so worried. You're beautiful like this, so lily-white and smooth. New-fallen snow, if I was going to be poetic. Hush now, breathing when and as you like is a privilege and not a right."

The sound of clothes hitting the floor.

"Don't take it personally that I'm not returning the favor of a show; Moran does get jealous after a certain point and it's harder than you would think to find an excellent sniper with few to no moral compunctions who is also smashing in bed."

Moran, Sherlock surmised, was the man who had drugged him. And apparently had some sort of attachment to Moriarty, though Sherlock was not so naive to think it was necessarily romantic. He willed himself to remain pliant and relaxed under unwelcome touch, a sort of passive defiance that also practically kept him from further provoking his captor.

It wasn't easy, though, oh God it wasn't. The strange obsession Moriarty had with nipping various parts of his skin was clearly meant to elicit reaction. As were the deep fingernail gouges Moriarty gleefully dug into Sherlock's chest, which he later kissed as if in apology.

After a long lick that went from Sherlock's navel to the hollow of his breastbone, Moriarty said, "You seem impatient. Enough foreplay? Ready for the main portion?"

At least there was one thing Moriarty didn't know, though. One thing Sherlock could hold onto to spare his dignity.

Or at least he thought so, until Moriarty coupled the first breach of slicked fingers with the whisper, "Never thought your first time would be like this, darling, I'm sure."

 

..........

 

After he was finished with Sherlock, leaving on last sickly sweet kiss on his forehead, Moriarty left his prey alone and still blindfolded. Sherlock lay there, trembling, for an interminable length of time. His realization that the seeping sensation between his legs was a product of blood as well as semen did not improve his state of mind.

Eventually someone entered the room, a tall man with heavy tread. Moran. After placing something weighty on the nightstand he removed both the gag and blindfold and swept the sweaty strands of hair away from Sherlock's face. His tone was pleasant and casual. "Do forgive Jim for leaving you; he has business to attend to, and there are certain measures the two of us have to follow to make sure no one knows you're here."

After a pause while Sherlock tried to figure out whether an answer was expected of him, he whispered, "I see."

"I have some water for you in a moment. Even a bit of dinner from that Italian place you like. You should consider yourself lucky that Jim considers you too precious a toy to break."

"You're genuinely in love with him," Sherlock said, taking refuge in a scrap of his normal behavior, as much as he could manage given the circumstances.

Moran smiled and tousled Sherlock's hair, but did not reply. He had a first-aid kit from which he removed various items to clean Sherlock up. It was humiliating and frequently smarted, but there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that if John did manage to mount a rescue he would at least be in one piece.

Once Moran had completed the task to his satisfaction, he produced another hypodermic needle. "Must you?" Sherlock asked, and then was almost immediately disgusted at himself for how plaintive he sounded.

"You're a good fighter, Sherlock, and you won't have had time to accept things yet. Not that I couldn't overpower you - but you might get hurt in the process. It's all right. You'll still be conscious, just weak." Moran tapped the needle to eliminate bubbles and sank it into Sherlock's neck.

He unbound Sherlock's ankles and helped him sit up, though his wrists were still cuffed. "Have some water."

Sherlock had been discombobulated enough to fail to notice that it was two weighty objects on the nightstand, not one, and that the other was a full flask. "I must warn you that my drinking anything will create certain issues if I'm to remain confined to this bed."

"There's a loo and bath just off to the side. Once the drug takes effect I can let you do things yourself. With supervision, naturally, but I have been instructed to give you clothes after you wash, even if Jim can't join us for dinner." Moran shrugged. "He works late so often these days. At least you're not the dullest company I've had to supervise on occasion."

"Lovely."

After giving Sherlock a drink Moran unlocked the cuffs. "Should be in effect by now. Up you get."

He tried to stand and walk without assistance, but he was too shuddery and enervated to do so. He was forced to almost cling to Moran to make it the ten steps to the bathroom, and even worse to complete all his necessary body functions once he'd reached it.

He'd never been good at urinating while being watched, a fact that had turned the drug tests of his younger days into drawn-out affairs. Moran reassured him, "I don't fancy you. You're a bit too much like a gangly alien for my taste. And I prefer them willing, otherwise it just gets too complicated."

Moran lowered Sherlock onto the floor for the few moments it took him to turn on the bathwater. The white ceramic tiles were cool against Sherlock's bare skin. As he slumped there, trying not to think too hard, he noticed that the towels and rug were dark maroon - to not show blood - there was no mirror - no glass as improvised weapon, either for defense or suicide - and there was no curtain or door - no privacy, will always be bound, drugged, watched over, or some combination.

By the time Moran thought the water deep enough, Sherlock could no longer hold up his head properly and he was sliding into a heap. "You poor thing. Perhaps I gave too large a dose. Good thing I'm here to make sure you don't drown. Jim would dismember me personally if something like that happened." The sniper-and-personal-assistant picked Sherlock up like an ungainly bundle and placed him in the bathtub.

The water, he had to admit, felt lovely. And at least the soap was light enough for him to use even in this pathetic state. He would absolutely loathe having to ask for assistance. As it was he could only lightly lather himself, not scrub himself raw the way he wished.

"If Jim were here, he would be making a joke about not dropping the soap," Moran mused, leaning against the wall and gazing down upon his charge. "Then again, if Jim were here, I don't think he'd wait for an excuse."

 

...........

 

Moran gave Sherlock neatly folded blue and green checked cotton pajamas and a pair of slippers his size after hoisting him from the bathtub and propping him up so he could dry himself. Sherlock dressed wobbily but in silence, not meeting the other man's eyes.

Producing a pair of police-grade handcuff from a coat pocket, Moran explained, "I'm going to tether you for just a moment while I go set up for dinner. If you try breaking your own hand to get out, those will not be the only bones you break today. Understood?"

"Mm." Did the man think he was stupid? The whole point of this was keeping John safe. He wasn't going to try something foolhardy and risk what little victory he had managed. Once Moran had left him shackled to the towel rack he leaned against the bedroom wall and wondered if Mycroft was going to have any of his staff executed over his disappearance or simply sacked.

He was not surprised to also be handcuffed to the chair he was told to sit in while eating. Moran thoughtfully provided a spork to assist one-handed polite dining, and delayed his own repast in order to towel off Sherlock's damp curls.

Sherlock felt more queasy than anything, but he ate the risotto and chicken parmesan, not knowing when he would be provided food again. He had to chase some of the vegetables around his plate with the spork before he could get them to his mouth. At least it gave him something to distract him from the situation.

Moran had just sat down and unfolded his napkin when the door creaked open. Ignoring or simply not observing the tremor now in Sherlock's hand, he said, "Finished the meeting early, Jim?"

Moriarty smiled at his assistant and allowed himself to be swept into a kiss, for all the world like they were an ordinary couple. "The Baron had some disagreements with the original plan. The police will most likely discover his body tomorrow morning. I should be free for the rest of the night."

"Shall I fetch another chair?"

"That's quite all right for now. How have you and the pet been getting on?" Moriarty climbed into Moran's lap and nestled against him.

"He's been good so far," Moran said between bites.

Sherlock focused on chewing thoroughly and swallowing without choking.

"You can talk; I won't punish you for it," Moriarty admonished.

"I'm not sure what could usefully be said at this point."

"Well, if you must be petulant..." Moriarty stood and crossed over to Sherlock, closing a hand over his free one and gripping his hair in his other hand. "I could fuck you on the floor, right here, right now, in front of Moran. How about that? Hmm?"

His throat dry, Sherlock whispered, "Please don't."

Moran continued to placidly enjoy his dinner. Moriarty twisted Sherlock's uncuffed arm behind his back and started tipping the chair. "I wasn't sure I heard that, my dear."

"Please, don't."

"You're mine. Say it."

"...I'm yours."

Moriarty's voice was low, breathy, his pupils blown wide. "Don't forget it, sexy. I decide when, what, how, and whether you eat, sleep, breathe, wash, and have a chance to do or be anything in addition to a plaything. You gave yourself to me. There is no more purpose in your life except to amuse me. Now because I'm bored, I want you to finish your dinner and then we'll play a game."

Something inside Sherlock crumpled and withered as he nodded as best he could.

"Say, 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir."

With a smile, Moriarty brought Sherlock back to stability and straightened his shirt. "Now there's an attitude I like to see." He returned to Moran's lap and clung happily for the remainder of the meal.

The game, as it turned out once the dishes had been cleared, was chess. Moriarty took white without asking. "If you win, all we'll do tonight is cuddle. If you lose I'll do whatever I like. If it's a stalemate, whatever-I-like won't take more than, oh, three hours or so."

 

........

 

Sherlock had never been so glad to win a chess game in his life.

For a moment after checkmate Moriarty's face went very still. Then he broke into a wide and rapturous smile. "I knew that would give you the proper motivation! That was a delight. I haven't lost a game of chess - literal or metaphorical - in years, just years; it's been sooo boring. We'll have to play again tomorrow. Raise the stakes a bit. Sebby..."

Moran looked up from the newspaper he was reading, his legs sprawled on the floor and his back leaning against Moriarty's legs, in which position he'd had his hair petted and played with absentmindedly by his employer as the adversaries had played in silence. He didn't seem to mind, but hadn't specifically acknowledged it either. "Yes, Jim?"

"Get him ready for the night. I'll be back in a moment."

Folding the newspaper and tucking it under his arm, Moran got to his feet and moved over to Sherlock. "Yes, Jim."

Moriarty put his chin in his hands and twiddled one foot like a schoolgirl. "You've been excellent today. Do you want to join us? I'll let you touch me, but not mine."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"If you ever touch Sherlock in a way other than what I've specifically said you can..."

"You know I never would," Moran replied soothingly, fumbling for another syringe. "Oi, Sherlock, if you want another drink of water tonight it'd be best to have it now."

As he got up to leave, Moriarty placed a small, fluttering kiss on Moran's cheek. Moran grinned and smacked Moriarty's arse by way of reply. He was rewarded with a mock-indignant look as the consulting criminal headed out the door, spending considerable time opening and closing the many elaborate locks.

After his drink of water Sherlock said nothing, only hissing a little as he was injected with another dose of the drug designed to weaken him. Moran helped him to the toilet, and then to the sink, where he presented Sherlock with a toothbrush and toothpaste. Sherlock knew it was no coincidence that it happened to be the very same brand he used at home. He thought about his own toothbrush lying next to John's tonight, unused, and if it hadn't been for the dizzy lassitude this latest dose was giving him he would have punched something, possibly even Moran.

He remained silent and unresisting as he was stripped naked, then arranged on the bed with hands chained to his waist - so they could be in front of him, making sleep easier, but without the risk of him attempting to strangle one of his captors - and shackled feet, though at least his feet were only bound to each other, rather than to the bedposts in an uncomfortable stretch. He did, however, balk when Moran brought out the new gag, a leather strap meant to fasten a long rubber shaft inside his mouth and throat.

"No. No. I'll choke."

Moran lightly stroked Sherlock's cheek as if to comfort him. "It's all right; you're going to be hooked up to a heart rate monitor, so an alarm will sound if you're in any danger. Besides, the dildo isn't even as big as Jim is. He's considerate enough to train you in stages. Open."

When Sherlock wouldn't, terrified, Moran sighed, sounding more in sorrow than in anger. "We were getting on so pleasantly. Jim has specifically said I'm allowed to discipline you, you know, as long as I don't cause any lasting damage or use you for my own fun." He produced another, similar item. It was larger than the first. "This one is going up your other hole. And if you don't cooperate after that, I'll take it out, coat it in one of those muscle-ache creams that burn for hours, and slide it back in you. Given how raw you already are down there, I doubt you would sleep well."

When Moriarty returned in black silk boxers and a dressing gown that looked like it cost as much as a years' university tuition, he clapped his hands, joyful. "I've always loved stuffed toys."

It took more than half an hour for everything to be completely settled. When it was, Sherlock had to resign himself to one side of the large bed, the heart rate monitor beeping quietly beside him, with Moriarty cuddling him like a possessive starfish. Moran spooned Moriarty from the other side, the two of them softly discussing tomorrow's plans and occasionally making little jokes Sherlock did not comprehend. The covers were soft, clean, and very expensive. The pillows were the finest down. Sherlock tried to turn his head away and pretend none of this was happening.

"Feeling neglected, Sherlock love?" Moriarty asked, nuzzling his ear. He slipped a hand under the covers to stroke Sherlock's limp cock. "One day I'll find a way to make you come, my dear, but until then you'll have to be satisfied with knowing how happy you make me."

 

..........

Sherlock slept very little that night, settling into an aching haze of unwelcome touch and the sleep-sounds of the two men in bed with him, his body going into frightening minutes of trembling he could not voluntarily stop. Moriarty must have been exhausted, because he never woke or even shifted position, curled up and gripping Sherlock tight. Moran got up once to use the toilet, glancing at Sherlock to make sure he was still there and breathing.

The clock on the wall said it was twenty past six in the morning when the incongruous sound of "Staying Alive" filled the room. After a few seconds Moriarty grumbled drowsily and batted at Moran. "Phone."

Moran grunted and fumbled for it on the nightstand, handing it over. Moriarty clambered over his henchman, pulled on his dressing gown, and answered the call. "Hello? Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" He unfastened the many locks on the door and exited to continue the conversation in private.

"Work, work, work," Moran muttered, stretching.

Then there was a strangled cry and a series of thumps. The door flew open.

Sherlock wondered why now, now, did his wretched body choose to produce tears when he saw who it was. John. John quite pale and shaking with wrath, his gun pressed to the back of Moriarty's head. He shoved Moriarty to his knees, the gun tipping his neck forward. His voice was quiet. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, free Sherlock, then come and tie Mr. Moriarty up for me. If you're very lucky, both of you might get a chance to see the inside of a courtroom."

Without a second's thought, Moran obeyed.

"The Woman," Moriarty managed to spit out, like a curse, before John lost his patience and clubbed him.

...

When the ambulance arrived and Sherlock was wheeled away, he said the first words anyone had heard from him since the rescue, since John had rushed to his side, horrified by his friend's condition, and helped him into clothes so he could have some dignity when the authorities came. Sherlock had moved slowly, as if underwater, and only given a brief nod when John asked if he was okay.

Sherlock's first words to anyone other than Moriarty or Moran in more than thirty hours was, "John...this shock blanket isn't orange..."

"What?" the paramedic asked.

"Get him an orange shock blanket!" John yelled.

"This blanket is perfectly fine, sir..."

"Get him one," said a familiar voice, accompanied by a hand on John's shoulder.

John turned to see Mycroft looking grim (and also, from the corner of his eye, saw people scurrying to follow his orders). "I'm sorry I didn't call you, Mycroft. They said they'd go after my sister."

Mycroft inclined his head. "That is understandable, if not convenient to myself personally, and Sherlock will most likely forgive you. So how, may I ask, did you accomplish this? No, let them go on without you, John, you can ride with me to the hospital as you explain."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand before letting them take him away, and managed a tiny wisp of a smile when Sherlock met his eyes and gave the most minuscule of squeezes back.

The woman who was not named Anthea ushered John into a black sedan where he sat beside Mycroft on smooth leather. She climbed into the passenger seat and gave quiet orders to the driver, all the while typing on her phone.

"First, what's going to happen to those two?" John asked.

"Ex-Colonel Moran is most likely going to serve a life term in prison."

"And?"

"I won't trouble you with any more distress than you have already experienced," Mycroft said smoothly, taking a sip of water from a small bottle. "Suffice to say James Moriarty is not going to trouble you or Sherlock again."

John took a deep breath. "Yeah. All right. So, anyway, I had unexpected help. Extremely unexpected. Apparently one of Moriarty's acquaintances is a dominatrix who dabbles in blackmail."

"Ah, Miss Irene Adler, I believe. She's been involved in several scandals in the past few months. I had wondered what part she played on this chessboard."

"I'm not going to ask. But she, er, contacted me."

"Contacted you?"

"When I finally got back to Baker Street after going for the worst, longest walk of my life trying to figure out what to do, I found her in my bedroom. That had been locked. She was going through my drawers, making sure none of them were bugged, since it was the least likely room in the flat to be under constant surveillance. After we managed our threats, blows, and introductions - as one one does when one finds a provocatively clothed dominatrix wielding a riding crop and a semiautomatic in one's bedroom offering to help rescue one's flatmate from a giggling maniac - we left for what she said was a safer location and we talked.

"She explained that her arrangement with Moriarty had fallen through, and that having him and his right-hand man removed from the public would take a lot of worries off her mind. And apparently one of the men in Moriarty's rank and file had used her...services...and she'd managed to get a list of Moriarty's various hideouts from him without him knowing." John took the proffered water bottle with mouthed thanks. "We eliminated the unlikely ones and spent the rest of the time tricking or breaking our way into the others."

"Interesting." Mycroft rubbed his chin, thinking. "Did she ask for any other reward?"

"She wanted your phone number and, for some reason, my honor-bound promise to make Sherlock have dinner with her once he's feeling better."

"Hm. Unusually sentimental for someone in her line of work. But then," Mycroft added as they pulled up to the hospital where Sherlock had been taken, "she is likely not the only one."

...

"May I see him?" John asked after Mycroft had spoken to the doctors. "Usually I know they wouldn't allow it right away, because I'm not family, but..."

"He'll want to see you when he wakes from the sedatives, not me. I've granted my permission as his next-of-kin. The least I could do." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella in an unusual show of tiredness. "There was very little physical injury, by the way, mostly shock and dehydration. Some minor bruising, tearing, and traces of a drug cocktail that shouldn't leave lasting harm. I fear the damage will be primarily psychological."

"So I was right, what I suspected." John buried his face in his hands just for a moment before regaining composure. "Dear God. I had so hoped I was wrong."

"I am sure that more than once within the next few days the man responsible will hope you were wrong, as well," Mycroft said, gazing at John didn't know what, his eyes full of coldness that made John uneasy.

"He's going to be a holy terror to any therapist we somehow convince him to see."

"Indeed. When you are as certain as you can be that he is at a stage of recovery where this would be helpful rather than adding to any trauma, do try to convince him to open the package he will be receiving. It will contain a photo album he may find gratifying. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of having your employment at the clinic terminated."

John had finally given in and sank into one of the hard plastic waiting room chairs, but at this he sprang up. "What?"

"Don't worry, double the equivalent of the salary you were earning is now being deposited annually into your bank account. You need both the time and the resources to take care of my little brother."

"Mycroft, I'm happy to help Sherlock, he's very dear to me, but..."

"So glad we understand each other. I have appointments to keep, I'm afraid. Good day, Doctor Watson."

John allowed himself a cathartic punch of the wall before going to see Sherlock.

..........

 

Jim huddled in a corner of the cell, naked, shielding his eyes from the glaring white lights and trying to weep softly enough to not be heard and to avoid taxing his cracked ribs. People had hurt him before - Daddy with the belt (and fists, and broken bottles), Carl Powers with his mocking words and cold hands shoved down the front of his pants when teachers weren't looking, various henchmen and bodyguards and the occasional crime boss personally in those early days before he was well established, before he was the one ordering or supplying beatings and kneecappings and skinnings and rapes - but not like this. Not like this.

The older Mr. Holmes had what he suspected were genuine surgeons at his disposal. Ones behind sanitary masks and rubber gloves, murmuring to each other once in a while but never responding to anything he said, and naturally not providing any form of anesthetic. Oh, and there was a similarly anonymous and professional photographer. Three guesses to whom the photographs would be sent, and the first two don't count.

He suspected by this point that if some miraculous escape happened, even with the best of medical care he would never walk again, and would always be unable to participate in sex other than being the passive partner. He nearly burst into hysterical laughter over the thought of how much Sebastian always loved it when his boss let him top.

The cell door slammed when Mr. Holmes returned. He prodded the back of Jim's head with his umbrella. "Mr. Moriarty, I trust you have had time and motivation to reconsider."

"Does it bother you that I was the first to have your baby brother, and most likely will be the last?"

A click of the tongue. "Your persistent attempts to goad me into having you killed quickly are growing ever more tiresome, young man."

"I'd rather die frustrating you."

"I'm offering you survival, albeit in exile. Witness protection. Including from Sherlock, who will think you dead, and who will be completely right if you ever come up on the radar again in any capacity. I am not petty as you might believe; the safety of the Commonwealth and the world beyond from your machinations are more important than further personal revenge."

"Fuck off."

"Then I will resort to other measures." Mycroft sent a brief text on his phone.

Jim braced himself for another round with the technicians, and couldn't decide whether he would have preferred them to what actually happened next: a heavily cuffed and shackled Sebastian Moran being ushered in by two burly armed guards.

Sebastian swore vehemently at the pitiful sight Jim must have presented. With some difficulty, and the other three men watching his every move, he kneeled by his boss' side. "Jim. I'm going to save you."

Jim choked out a laugh at that. "You shouldn't be so sentimental, Sebby, it's unattractive in a gun-for-hire."

"You know we're more than that to each other. Now I know I'm doing the best thing for both of us." Sebastian accepted assistance returning to his feet. "I'll tell you everything, Mr. Holmes."

"No!" Jim roused himself from his huddle and scrabbled at Sebastian's legs. "You sickening meatheaded loutish bastard..."

Sebastian quavered, "Jimmy..."

"You're not allowed to call me that!" Jim wailed, frantic. "You're letting them win, damn you! You're letting them win because you care about me, and that's never supposed to happen!"

...

They could still hear Jim shrieking all the way down the hall.

"He's screaming more than he ever did earlier," Mycroft mused.

"He's always had trouble with his pride being wounded," Sebastian replied slowly, dazed.

"Your loyalty to your employer impresses me, Colonel. It is a shame you never turned such devotion to someone not so thoroughly reprehensible."

"I'm not going to say what I would like to say in response to that, sir, as you have our lives in your hands, sir."

...

"You didn't say you would have him blinded!"

"Blinded, paralyzed below the waist, and surgically rendered impotent, actually, all permanent. To minimize his threat to the world. Be grateful I am facilitating this - shall we say pardon - at all. I now owe a considerable number of favors to a considerable number of people. Go to him. My staff will escort you to the car, from which you will catch your flight to New Zealand. I never want to see or hear anything of either of you again."

Jim looked tiny and fragile on the cot where he'd been dumped, trying in vain to remove the bandage from around his eyes. Well, where he used to have eyes. He'd been cleaned up and clothed. "I'm going to smother you in your sleep," he growled when Sebastian put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're alive," Sebastian said, kissing his forehead. Jim continued making threats and tossing around all sorts of insults as Sebastian gently scooped him up and carried him bridal-style out the room, their guards flanking him on both sides. Sebastian let him tire himself out, and then just before they reached the car he replied, mildly, "Hadn't heard that last one before, boss."

"Oh, oh...you!" Jim buried his face in Sebastian's chest and started sobbing. He continued, helplessly, as Sebastian bundled him into the backseat and fastened his safety belt.

"It's not so bad, really," Sebastian said after getting in the other side and their driver setting off. "Our identities are Mr. James and Mr. Simon Conan-Doyle..."

"'Simon Conan' is one of the most imbecilic names I've ever heard," Jim muttered through his crying, which was now interspersed with undignified hiccups.

"Maybe that's why we chose to hyphenate when we got married."

"Hmph."

"Anyway, I'm a martial arts instructor. You're a wounded war hero from Afghanistan, complete with disability benefits and army pension to make it realistic. Also, probably, so they have something they can cut off from us if we try anything. We moved to a small village in New Zealand for the good weather and quieter lifestyle."

"The irony is simply delightful."

"Jim, you do realize that from this moment on and for the rest of your life you're kind of, well, technically, and not to put too fine a point on it, my bitch?"

A long silence. "Why do you think I'm not in the best of moods?" Jim asked in a little voice.

Sebastian wrapped his arms around Jim and whispered into his water-slicked hair, "I'll make you trust me, even if you've never trusted anyone in your life, James Conan-Doyle."

 

..........

 

John wrote up a fictional version of the pool scene on his blog, in order to spare Sherlock's feelings, and also because he really didn't want to type the words out. Ever. He remembered with chills Irene Adler's advice once they began looking for Sherlock: "Given the state he'll probably be in, Doctor Watson, you will want to go in first."

Sherlock alternated between acting as though the entire incident had not happened and snapping at anyone who suggested it might have, to near-catatonia where he would sit with his knees to his chest, wearing his coat indoors, and staring at the wall. The only fussing he seemed willing to tolerate was Mrs. Hudson's new habit of inundating him with baked goodies and pots of tea.

"You don't eat enough, Sherlock," she would say.

"Mm," he'd reply, but rewarding her with at least a few nibbles on the most recent treat.

John didn't fuss. He had never been good at that, in any case, more of a pat-them-on-the-back-and-make-a-joke type when it came to bedside manner. "Would you like to go to therapy today?"

"Boring."

"All right, then, I'll cancel it." He remembered how much he'd hated being forced to see his own therapist and had resolved never to nag Sherlock about seeing his.

Three weeks after Sherlock's rescue, and Sherlock took up a new case, one John ended up calling "The Breakdancing Men". John was glad and did everything he could to be helpful. He'd never cared much for Freud, but he agreed with the statement that the only lasting cures in the end were work and love.

About that. Three weeks and two days after Sherlock's rescue, the night after Sherlock solved the mystery, John woke with a start to see Sherlock wrapped in a sheet and sitting on the end of John's bed. "You make a lot of noise when you sleep," Sherlock said. "Do I do that?"

"These days, yes." It twisted something in John's chest to hear the moaned don't touch me don't touch me please leave me alone get off please don't touch, a litany Sherlock had kept up every time he slept.

"Interesting."

"Is there a particular reason you're in my room at this hour?"

"I woke up. And it occurred to me that you haven't been dating anyone recently."

"Been a bit busy." In the darkened silence, John took a risk and added, quietly, "You're more important than that, anyway."

Sherlock looked at him. He seemed...confused? "Does that - does that mean - you want to have - do you see me as -"

"Oh no. God, no. Someone can be the most important, exasperating, damnably amazing and fantastic git that ever walked into someone else's life without them having to feel that way about each other. Not that it never crossed my mind, but you're not like that. Towards anyone, as far as I can see. Which is fine. I promise."

Perhaps Sherlock smiled a little. Perhaps not. "Darling John," he breathed, ghosting a hand over John's cheek. Then he headed back downstairs to his own room.

Epilogue: 2017

The department head of mathematics at a university in Auckland (that shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) pushed his wheelchair towards where he always hung his jacket at the beginning of a lecture. He cleared his throat and spoke in the direction of where he could hear his aide breathing and shuffling papers. "If you have any trouble with the grading, Kitty, you know my mobile number."

"Yes, Professor. Will your husband be picking you up, or would you like a lift home?"

"Cab for Professor Conan-Doyle," rumbled a rich, distinctive baritone from the door.

It was always difficult to tell what the tiny, genius war hero of a professor was thinking, with his eye sockets hidden behind a special pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, his sing-song lilt of a voice, and his biting sarcasm toward anyone whom he thought patronizing.

Miss Katherine Winter gathered up her things. "Goodnight then, Professor."

"Goodnight."

Once they were alone, Sherlock approached Jim, looking him up and down. "Mycroft was thorough indeed. Careful, you're backing into a wall."

"How did you find me?"

"Some of your students have a Facebook fan page devoted to their favorite professor. Apparently quite a few fancy you. How heartwarming - a intelligence agent wounded in Afghanistan becoming a highly respected maths instructor despite now being both blind and paraplegic. I'm surprised it hasn't been made into a film."

"There were offers. I turned them down."

"Wise."

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I'm here for a consultation. I'm trying to take down a chapter of the Yakuza that has overstepped their bounds, and though we most likely both loathe each other to the very core of our beings, you know the criminal underworld like nobody else. And I know you've been aching for the game."

Jim laughed. "How very sentimental."


End file.
